Enough
by Golightly11
Summary: Richard learns that Isobel will not be marrying Lord Merton and is just as delighted as Violet predicted he would be.
1. Chapter 1

_First time writing fanfiction in over three years, brought on by my incurable Richobel obsession. I hope it isn't dreadful._

Richard is in the Servant's Hall at Downton Abbey when he finds out. One of the hallboys has taken a tumble down the stairs and injured his wrist. After examining Donny and determining that it is simply a sprain, he has stopped to make sure he's correctly repacked his medical bag when he overhears two housemaids chattering outside. His head pops up at the sound of a familiar name.

"So Mrs. Crawley's definitely told him no then?"

"That's what I heard. She's not going to marry him after all."

"Well, I never. She could have been Lady Merton!"

"And been stepmother to those horrors! I wouldn't do it, I tell you."

"As if you'd ever have the chance, you!"

"Girls!" It is Mrs. Hughes' starchy Scottish-accented voice. "Shall we stop the gossip and get to work then? You are both needed upstairs."

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes," they chime and are off in a flurry of light footsteps and giggling. Mrs. Hughes pokes her head around the door. She appears to be eying him oddly and he wonders if he is flushed. His face feels hot and his heart rate seems to have escalated.

"How's Donny then, Doctor?"

"His wrist isn't broken, luckily, just sprained. I've told him to keep some ice on it to help with the swelling and to avoid anything strenuous for a few days. If he's not up and back to normal in a week, let me know."

"Thanks so much for coming out, Doctor. Do stop by the kitchen on your way out; Mrs. Patmore's just baked scones. "

He thanks her and heads off. Halfway down the hall he realizes that he's forgotten his medical bag and has to go back to retrieve it. He does not stop by the kitchen, but goes straight outside. The sky overhead is a brilliant blue. He could have sworn it was grey when he came in, but then everything has seemed so grey to him for the past few months. Suddenly he is freshly aware of the brisk air on his cheek and the smell of smoke from the fireplaces inside and the world seems so much brighter and clearer and more colorful than it had an hour ago.

He's been feeling twinges in his bones lately, age finally catching up with him he supposes, but as he climbs onto his bicycle he feels as light and free as a schoolboy. As he pedals off toward the hospital he begins to hum, an old Scottish air from his childhood, and he can't keep an uncharacteristic grin of delight from spreading across his face. She may not be his, but she will not be Lord Merton's. She may not be his but she will still be here, will still be herself, and for now that is enough, that is everything, that is all Richard wants.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you so much to the reviewers who encouraged me to continue! This next chapter was inspired by a Season 5 photo that, to my great sorrow, turned out not be Richobel after all, but in my world it is._

He has a rare extra day off from the hospital and has spent it running errands. He has just finished his last one, a trip to the village shop to pick up the Earl Grey tea his sister in Edinburgh likes so much, when he sees her coming out of the post office. She spots him and raises a gloved hand in greeting, making her way over to him.

"How are you, Doctor Clarkson? What a nice surprise! It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"You've been quite occupied, I'm sure." He sees a flash of hurt in her eyes and he adds hastily, "We both have. What with the holidays and all."

"Oh…yes. The holidays."

There is a tinge of sadness to her voice. He glances at her and doesn't like what he sees. Her face displays a sleepless night's pallor and dark circles stain the skin under her eyes.

"Forgive my rudeness, but are you quite well, Mrs. Crawley?

"Just fine, thank you. It's only…well, I've decided not to marry Lord Merton after all." She smiles wryly. "I've just sent out quite a few letters to that effect. "

For a moment he considers pretending the news is a surprise, but he has never been any kind of liar, is still kept awake nights sometimes questioning the morality of his part in that miserable business after Lady Sybil's death.

"So I've heard. I'm very sorry."

Fortunately she doesn't ask how he heard, so he doesn't have to admit to eavesdropping on housemaids' gossip.

"Well, thank you for that. Although I'm perfectly aware that you've never cared for Lord Merton."

"I don't dislike him," he objects. And that is true. He resents the man, envies him, and considers him unworthy of the woman next to him, but he doesn't dislike Dickie Merton, simply wishes he'd disappear.

She eyes him skeptically, but doesn't press the point.

"Well, I'd better be getting on home before dark. It was good to see you, Doctor." She starts heading toward Crawley House, and he falls into step beside her.

"I'm going that way as well. I've managed to finish all my shopping, thank goodness."

"However are they managing without you at the hospital today?"

"Dr. Murray is visiting the hospital for a few days and filling in for me. I'll be back in tomorrow."

"How is the hospital?"

"Busy as ever. We've been a bit understaffed actually- just this week we lost one nurse to retirement and another to motherhood."

She takes in the information, nods, and they walk in silence for a bit. She nibbles her bottom lip in thought.

"You know, I've been thinking….I'd rather like to come back to the hospital. I've missed it quite a bit. Do you think you might be able to find a use for me?"

"You have an open invitation, Mrs. Crawley. I'm sure your help would be very much appreciated by all."

She smiles and he notices with pleasure that a little of the sparkle has returned to her big brown eyes.

"Well, that's certainly nice to hear. Will it be all right if I come by the clinic tomorrow?

He thinks about his schedule for tomorrow, the rounds, the patients, the endless paperwork. It all runs infinitely smoother when she is not there; the climate is much more harmonious. The nurses do his bidding without question and never argue with him about the merits of a new and untried treatment over a time-tested and familiar one. They don't brandish medical journals in his face and demand that he look at this or that article before he makes a diagnosis. His office is quiet and orderly and he gets much more done without the sounds of her shuffling papers around and chewing her pen as she works, her exhaled breath as she comes across something in a chart that she doesn't like, the interruption of her sudden laughter when she is amused. He can focus much better when he isn't constantly distracted by the faint but enchanting lavender scent of her hair and the way her work apron emphasizes her curves. It is all so much easier without her and he can't wait for her to come back.

"Tomorrow should be just fine."

"Excellent! It will be good to get back to work." She raises her face to the sky. "I do believe it's snowing."

She is right. Large flakes filter down around them as they walk through the deepening twilight, beginning to collect on the stones beneath them. Suddenly she stumbles and he automatically wraps his arm around hers to steady her.

"Thank you, Doctor," She ruefully surveys her high heeled slippers. "These are not ideal for traipsing around in the snow."

They've reached the place where he should turn off to his house, but he doesn't want to leave her.

"Why don't I walk you home then? Make sure you get there safely?"

She chuckles. "Well, I don't think I'm in much danger, but all right. I suppose I wouldn't be much use to you at the hospital with a sprained ankle." She doesn't let go of his arm but continues to hold onto it as they walk. She is only using him for balance, he knows it, but the warmth of her seeps through the barrier of both of their coats and he savors it, the light pressure and her nearness.

"So, do tell me more about how the insulin treatment for diabetes has been working. How exactly is it administered?"

The walk to her house goes quickly as they chat and soon they are at her doorstep. She drops his arm and he feels the loss of contact viscerally.

"Thank you for seeing me home. Will you come in for a glass of something?

He would love to come in for a glass of something. He longs for a few more minutes in her company, but she is starting to look tired again and he senses that she is offering mainly out of politeness.

"Thanks, but I had better be getting home. We'll look forward to seeing you tomorrow."

He touches his hat and begins to leave, but her soft voice calls him back.

"Doctor Clarkson!"

He turns. She smiles beautifully at him in the blue dusk.

"Thank you for being such a good friend. It's …much appreciated."

His heart is madly throbbing in his chest and he wants to tell her that he will do anything to make her happy again, that the distance that has come between them since Lord Merton waltzed into her life has been torturing him and that the prospect of having her back in his hospital, in his world, has filled him with unimaginable joy, but his habitual shyness and reserve take the words prisoner and he can only nod in response. As she disappears into Crawley House, closing the door behind her, he heads off to recover the bicycle he only now remembers he left leaning against the shop wall.


	3. Chapter 3

Richard is on his way back to the hospital after a house call to old Mrs. Collins, who is recovering nicely from a broken ankle. It is a beautiful March day, just a touch of spring softening the air and a few isolated spots of emerald hinting at the tides of green that will soon flood the countryside. He breathes in appreciatively and marvels that it can be spring already when Christmas seems to have just finished. Doing a quick mental calculation, he realizes that it has been exactly three months to the day since Isobel returned to working at the hospital. Three months, and their old camaraderie has been almost completely restored. He worried about her at first, her shadowed eyes and the sadness that crept into them when she thought no one was looking, but gradually the shadows disappeared, the pink warmed her cheeks once again, and her old passion for nursing kept her darting around the hospital, making patients laugh, making them comfortable, gently comforting families who had received bad news or simply sitting beside them when that was warranted. They'd engaged in a number of rather spirited disagreements, and while they complicated his life, he was so glad to have her back to herself again that he couldn't wish them away.

As he nears the hospital, he notices a familiar tall thin figure standing by the wall, deep in conversation with a smaller, curvier person clad in a familiar dark blue dress. All the contentment he'd been feeling congeals into a cold knot of anxiety in his stomach. What is Lord Merton doing at his hospital and why is he speaking so intently to Nurse Crawley? He isn't close enough to see their faces well, but as he approaches he sees Lord Merton taking Isobel's hand and kissing it before turning to leave. Unfortunately Lord Merton sees Richard approaching and raises a hand in greeting, so Richard is forced to bring his bicycle to a stop.

"Dr. Clarkson, how good to see you."

"Lord Merton. I hope you're not in need of medical attention?"

Lord Merton chuckles uneasily.

"No, no, nothing like that. I'm only in town for a short visit and I just stopped by to have a bit of a chat with Mrs. Crawley."

"I see."

For some reason, Lord Merton does not seem to want to meet Richard's eyes. He is shifting back and forth uncomfortably on his feet.

"Well, I'd best be off- I'm expected at the Abbey shortly. Hope all's well at the hospital then!"

"Very well. Thank you. Enjoy the rest of your visit."

Lord Merton strides off, moving quickly away from the hospital without a backwards glance. Richard looks to see if Isobel is still outside. She is. She has sunk onto a bench and is sitting quite still, the look on her face inscrutable. Richard crosses over to her.

"Is everything all right, Nurse Crawley?"

She looks up at him, her brown eyes dazed as though she'd just been woken from a sound sleep.

"Lord Merton's just stopped by to let me know he's engaged to Lady Shackleton. They're planning to be married in three weeks.

Richard does not know quite what to say. "I'm sorry" doesn't seem right; certainly "Congratulations" is not it. He is torn between abject relief that Lord Merton was not here to rekindle his romance with Isobel and fury at the man for hurting her. Finally he settles on, "Well, that is a surprise."

One corner of her mouth quirks in a wryly bitter smile. "It certainly is. That does seem like an awfully fast courtship."

"Lady Grantham is an excellent matchmaker, apparently" he observes before thinking better of it, realizing that Lady Grantham certainly would not appreciate any discussion of the motives behind that uncomfortable tea many months ago. He also remembers, too late, who the other pair at that tea was and hopes she will not notice his ill-considered comment.

Fortunately his remark doesn't seem to have registered.

"I suppose Larry will adore her," she murmurs, more to herself than to him. "She does have an impeccable background."

"Would you like to take the rest of the afternoon off?" He offers. She bristles.

"Certainly not, I'm absolutely fine. " She laughs, a mirthless little bark. "It's just a bit of a shock, is all. A slight blow to my vanity, perhaps – one does like to consider oneself irreplaceable."

"You are irreplaceable!"" he says, much more vehemently than he intended. She looks at him, surprised. "At the hospital," he adds, then realizes he's only made it worse. "And as a friend," he finishes lamely.

"Well, thank you. That's very kind of you to say." She forces a smile. "I'd best be getting back then, or Nurse Jenkins will be wondering where I am."

He watches her retreating figure, her shoulders stubbornly squared and head held resolutely high. Richard abhors violence, he's seen far too much of it both at war and in the village, but he suddenly feels that he'd quite enjoy punching Lord Merton right in his handsome face. Even if he would have to be the one to patch him up afterward.

The afternoon passes in the hospital's usual whirlwind of activity. When he sneaks glances at her on the ward she seems to be functioning as usual, smiling, reaching behind a patient's head to fluff a pillow, administering medicine with her characteristic practiced efficiency. However there is a tightness around her mouth that concerns him. The sun is setting and the day nurses have gone home for dinner when he finds her in his office, sitting at the small desk that she has commandeered for her personal use. A chart lies in front of her, but she isn't looking at it. She hasn't bothered to turn on the lights. She is staring at the wall and in the faint gloom he can just make out a tell-tale glitter on her soft cheek. His heart constricts. He wants to touch her, to hold her, at the very least to squeeze her shoulder in comfort, but he doesn't, unsure if the contact would be welcome. With an effort, he keeps his voice cheerful and upbeat.

"Nurse Crawley! I'm glad to see you're still here!"

She startles at his voice."

"Sorry, Doctor, I was woolgathering for a moment. What can I help you with?"

"I was hoping you would consult with me on a patient who's just come in. He's got a rather severe rash all over his body. I think it's likely to be poison ivy, but you had mentioned reading that article on dermamyositis and I thought you might be able to help me rule it out.

She perks up, to his great relief.

"Certainly! Dermamyositis is quite uncommon, but I suppose it's not impossible. Can you describe the rash? Does the patient have any other symptoms? Any muscle weakness?

"Why don't you come see for yourself?" he suggests, ushering her out of the office and down the hall.

He is completely certain that it is indeed poison ivy, as she will no doubt quickly pronounce. His conscience bothers him a bit at the deception, but he salves it by reminding himself that a second opinion never hurt anyone and that the mental health of his best nurse is important enough to justify a slight bending of the truth.


	4. Chapter 4

It has been a long night and Richard is tired. Other than a few hours' sleep snatched on the cot in his office, he has spent it at the bedside of Sam Dowling, a young farmer who is wrestling with a virulent bout of pneumonia. It has been unclear for the past few hours whether the boy will live or die, but shortly after the sun rises Richard sighs with relief and takes a step away from Sam's bed. The danger has passed and his breathing has stabilized a bit. Richard is finally confident that he will make it.

He turns to the corner where Sam's mother, a recent widow in her fifties, is sitting, sniffling loudly into her handkerchief.

"Mrs. Dowling?" he says softly.

She springs from her seat and crosses to him, anxiously twisting her handkerchief.

"What is it, Doctor? Please tell me!"

"The worst is over, I'm glad to say. I believe Sam is likely to make a full recovery."

She shrieks with joy and, without warning, flings herself into his arms. This is a not uncommon reaction from concerned relatives receiving good news about their loved ones, but as her arms tighten around him and she buries her face in his white-gowned shoulder he has the feeling that her embrace is a bit too tight for propriety and seems to be going on rather an uncomfortably long time. Over the top of her blonde head he sees Isobel enter the room, arriving for her morning shift. Surprise crosses her face at the sight of Mrs. Dowling clinging to him. His eyes meet hers in a silent plea.

"Good morning, Nurse Crawley! Good news- it looks as though Sam has turned the corner and should be right as rain in just a few weeks.

Her expression shifts to one of comprehension and he thinks he detects just a touch of amusement.

"Oh, that's wonderful! Isn't that that wonderful, Mrs. Dowling?" Gently she takes the younger woman's arms and leads her to the small table next to the bedside of her sleeping son. "Let me show you what he'll need from you once you take him home- when do you think, Doctor? Perhaps tomorrow?"

He smiles at her gratefully, agreeing that tomorrow is likely when Sam will be ready to leave the hospital before he slips out the door to begin the days' rounds.

By afternoon he is beginning to seriously feel the effects of his sleepless night. He has taken refuge in his office to try to gulp down a quick cup of tea and is somewhat less than delighted when a nurse knocks on the door and informs him that Lady Grantham is there to see him.

"Lady Grantham! What an unexpected pleasure!" he says, as pleasantly as he can manage. Violet inspects the arm chair he offers as though she half-expects it to be full of syringes and specimens before she seats herself.

"Dr. Clarkson." She peers at him disapprovingly, "Are you quite well?" He realizes that he must look as exhausted as he feels.

"Just fine, Lady Grantham. What can I do for you?"

She sighs. "Well…it's rather a personal matter. You may know that Lord Merton will be getting married this Saturday."

He does know. He has been monitoring Isobel for signs of distress, but so far she has been quite cheerful and energetic.

"I do. I suppose you will be in attendance?"

"Oh yes, certainly. The family will be heading to London tomorrow. They're planning quite a grand event."

"Well, I certainly wish them every happiness."

"Certainly. However, Dr. Clarkson, I'm rather concerned about Mrs. Crawley. She did receive an invitation to the wedding but, quite wisely, declined to attend. It will obviously be a difficult day for her and, as the entire family will be away, she will have to one to spend it with and I'm afraid she may become quite melancholy alone. I've suggested that she invite you for dinner and if she does take my suggestion- which, knowing Mrs. Crawley, she may not- I would very much like you to accept."

"Did you think I wouldn't?" he asks, surprised.

She sniffs.

"Oh no, I thought it quite likely you would, I just wanted to ensure that you didn't make any other commitments for the evening. You haven't any, have you?"

He shakes his head. He didn't, but he would certainly have broken any that he did have without hesitation.

"Good. Also! If she doesn't ask you, I am trusting you to find a way to make sure she isn't alone. Invite her somewhere if you must. I am placing my complete trust in your abilities."

"Your confidence in me is flattering, but I think Mrs. Crawley will do as she likes and if she'd prefer to be alone I don't believe I can persuade her otherwise.

"Do not let me down, Doctor. I do not expect that you will." She eyes him sternly. "Unless perhaps Mrs. Crawley's wellbeing is less important to you than it seems to be?"

"I care very deeply about her happiness!" he insists.

She nods, satisfied.

"I believe you do, Doctor. I must say, I wish you cared as much about your own."

With that cryptic observation, she rises and heads for the door before he can request an explanation. He jumps up to open it for her

"Good day, Doctor Clarkson. I must be off to supervise the packing."

"Good day, Lady Grantham. I wish you and the family a safe and enjoyable journey."

Once she is gone, he sinks into his desk and buries his face in his hands. However is he supposed to entice Isobel Crawley to spend an evening with him if she is not interested in his company? He ponders the merits of an invitation to the cinema, wonders if there are any intriguing medical lectures going on nearby. When Isobel does appear shortly thereafter and somewhat awkwardly invites him for dinner the following night, he is so relieved that he accepts almost before the invitation has left her lips.

"All right then," she says, eyeing him curiously. "It will be lovely to have a chance to catch up. I can't promise anything particularly sumptuous, but it should be edible at the very least! Shall we say seven?"

"Perfect."

She leaves to return to the ward and he follows her, wondering frantically if his good suit is clean and conscious of an anticipatory warmth spreading through him at the prospect of spending an entire evening with her, even if it has been carefully engineered by Lady Grantham.


	5. Chapter 5

_Sorry this update took forever and thank you so much to all the wonderful reviewers for your support and encouragement! Richard's backstory is courtesy of David Robb's stated opinion that Dr. Clarkson was jilted while at university._

The poached salmon and asparagus were delicious, he is sure- she freely admits to having borrowed Daisy from the Abbey for the evening's preparations- but he really hadn't tasted much, distracted as he is by the sight of Isobel in a dress he can't remember having seem before, a plum colored silk with a velvety collar that turns her skin to heavy cream in the candlelight. She seems to be in good enough spirits – dinner conversation was a lively mix of subjects ranging from the need to reevaluate the hospital laundry schedule to the article she'd read on a new way to prevent diptheria. However, he noticed that she drank more than usual at dinner- and to be honest, he did too, wanting to keep her company. They'd finished a bottle and a half of wine between them and are now sitting companionably in the drawing room, him with a tumbler of whiskey, her with a sherry. There is a lull in the conversation. For a moment they sit in silence and then she sighs, looking at the clock.

"They're married now. Lord Merton and Lady Shackleton."

"Yes." He doesn't know what to say. However, Violet would certainly expect him to make sure that Isobel's mental state is at least relatively sanguine, so he ventures, "It must be very difficult."

"It's…odd." She bites her lip, sips her drink. "It's strange, to think of Dickie being married to someone else. And of course, my pride is a bit bruised because he moved on so fast. But really, I do think it's for the best."

"Indeed?" he manages.

"I think they're awfully well-suited. And well…I don't know that I loved him. That I was in love with him. I cared for him, of course, he is a wonderful man, but really…I think it was more the adventure of it all. And I found that I enjoyed the companionship. I've quite missed being married, I find. Having someone to come home to at the end of the day, to share things with." She seems to be speaking more to herself than to him, staring pensively into the fireplace. Although she is not slurring her words, nothing of the sort, there is something, a looseness to her voice that is quite different from her usual crisp tones. He is aware of a certain fuzziness in his own head and thinks that perhaps he should refrain from finishing his whiskey.

"Anyway, it's all over now. Gracious, listen to me go on! I apologize for being such dreary company. Mrs. Dowling is quite lovely, don't you think?"

The abrupt change of subject has his head spinning even more than the whiskey already does.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Mrs. Dowling. Sam's mother."

He tries to remember how Sam's mother looks and produces a vague impression of blonde curls, blue eyes, and some sort of overpoweringly sweet perfume.

"I couldn't say, honestly. I was thinking about Sam."

"Of course you were." She shakes her head with an affectionate smile. "She was asking all the nurses if they thought you'd ever marry ."

At that, he rolls his eyes. It has come through the hospital grapevine on numerous occasions that this or that middle-aged widow and quite a few younger ones as well have expressed interest in his marital status and any potential changes therein. He generally does his best to ignore any discussion of the subject.

"She's a patient's mother, Mrs. Crawley. That's all."

She pours herself another sherry.

"Would you care for another whiskey?"

He shouldn't. For a myriad of reasons, he shouldn't. But he ignores them, gulps the dregs in his glass, and accepts her offer. Drinks refreshed, she sits back comfortably in her chair.

"Why is it that you've never married, Dr. Clarkson?"

He's been asked the question so many times, less frequently now than when he was younger, although it does still come up fairly regularly. He has a carefully prepared response, one that he's given so many times he can rattle it off almost without thought (never met the right woman…confirmed bachelor…dedicated to his work.)But her brown eyes are gazing at him with such genuine interest that, instead of giving his usual answer, for whatever reason- perhaps it is the drink, perhaps it is the full moon peering through the window, perhaps it is the fact that he has a birthday coming up and it is a big one- he finds himself telling her the truth. He tells her about Amy. He hasn't spoken about Amy in thirty years and as the words spill out of his mouth he feels such a sense of lightness, as though a weight is lifting off his chest. He tells her how beautiful Amy was, how charming, how he couldn't believe his luck when she agreed to marry him, a poor medical student, when she could have had any man in Edinburgh. He tells her how when she sent word a week before the wedding that she'd changed her mind, returning his mother's engagement ring wrapped in brown paper, he couldn't believe it. He'd gone to her house and insisted on seeing her and only when she'd told him herself that she would instead be marrying her father's protégé, a successful banker and one of the wealthiest men in town, did the realization set in. He'd stayed drunk for a week as it was the only thing that had in any way dulled the crushing pain. After the week's end he'd enlisted. He'd finished school and he couldn't bear to stay in Edinburgh where he might run into her on any street corner. War would at least be a distraction.

"I'm so sorry, Dr. Clarkson. You must have loved her very much."

"I believed I did. At the time.

"So that was it? You never cared for anyone else in that way?"

He should end the story here. He's said quite enough. He doesn't.

"No. I thought it was for many years. I left the army eventually, came to Downton, and worked. I really didn't think I could feel that way again.

His head is swimming and he can feel his heart pounding hard in his chest. He is in dangerous waters now, but he has to get this out.

"But then suddenly I did. Fall in love again. I met someone and she was the most beautiful, kind, intelligent woman I'd ever met. We didn't always get along, but I couldn't help falling in love with her.

"Did it end well?" Her voice is soft and her question is gentle.

"I asked her to marry me. She said no. I thought I could live with that; that I'd just go on as I always had. But then the worst loss that could possibly happen to a woman happened to her and through it all she proved herself to be so brave and strong and caring that, although I thought I loved her before, I love her ten times more now. A hundred. I know she'll never return my feelings, but it's enough to have her friendship. I may never have married, but I do know what it is to love."

He has been staring into his now-empty tumbler, but he risks a glance up at her face. Her brown eyes are wide with shock. What happens next, he doesn't quite understand. One moment she is ensconced in the chair across from him and then suddenly she is in his arms, her lips are on his, and they are kissing. Almost without instruction from him, his arms tighten around her body, pulling her into his lap. He has dreamed of this moment, imagined it so many times, but the reality is infinitely better. There are so many details he didn't think to include in the dreams because he simply didn't know. He knew her hair smelled deliciously of lavender, had caught a trace of it when he leaned over her at the desk or squeezed by her in the ward, but he had never been close enough to experience the scent of her soft fair skin, a mixture of vanilla and sun-warmed violets. His heart has often been gladdened by her wide smile and infectious laugh, but he had never known how her mouth would taste of sherry and the chocolate souffle they'd had for dessert and something else, something indescribably Isobel. Although he'd frequently- and guiltily- admired the curves of her figure, he'd never imagined how wonderful those curves would feel pressed against him and how she'd fit so perfectly into his embrace.

He loses himself in her for a few glorious minutes and then his brain, as it so often does, interrupts. His body wants nothing more than to scoop her up, carry her off to her bedroom, and engage with her in all the inappropriate activities he doesn't allow himself to think about. His mind, however, loudly and persistently, reminds him that she has drunk quite a bit, they both have, and that she is, of course, emotionally unsettled – it is her ex-fiance's wedding day! His brain also, devastatingly, supplies him with a terrifying vision of Violet's reaction if she finds out that he has taken advantage of her friend's vulnerable state in such a caddish manner. Even more terrifying is the prospect that Isobel will regret this in the morning, that he will destroy their precious friendship.

Gently, he breaks the kiss.

"Mrs. Crawley…"

"Isobel" she corrects. She leans in to place a string of kisses along his throat and he thinks he may die of wanting. It takes every bit of determination he has to pull away again.

"Mrs Crawley…Isobel…Mrs Crawley…this is not a good idea." Placing his hands on her waist, he removes her carefully from his lap and stands up. She looks at him, surprised and hurt, and then two bright spots of pink blossom on her cheeks. She busies herself with tidying her hair. He wants very badly to hold her again. His arms already feel empty without her.

"Of course. I apologize for my behavior."

"There's nothing to apologize for, it's just that-"

"I quite understand, Dr. Clarkson. I misunderstood. I thought that you…cared for me."

"I do care for you!" he bursts out. He has hurt her feelings and embarrassed her and he doesn't know what to say to fix it. "You are my dearest friend and I would never want to do anything to hurt you-"

"Of course." She smiles tightly. "Again, I apologize. I don't know what I was thinking. I hope you can forgive my forwardness. I think it's probably best for you to leave now, don't you agree?

As he is trying desperately to figure out what to say to salvage the situation, she quickly produces his hat and coat and points him toward the door. Stumbling over the words, he thanks her for dinner and tells her he will see her tomorrow at the hospital. She nods, gives him another false smile, and unceremoniously shuts the door behind him.

Outside the chilly spring air is a slap in the face after the cozy warmth of her drawing room. He pulls his coat tight around him and leans against the doorframe, stomach churning and head already beginning to ache. For a moment he considers knocking on the door. If he goes back in, if he tries to explain how much he loves her, perhaps he can still repair this horrible mess. But then the downstairs lights go out and he knows he's missed his chance. Cursing himself, he begins the long trudge home, turning the night over and over in his mind and trying to figure out how the best moment of his life had so quickly gone so dreadfully wrong.


	6. Chapter 6

_Sorry again that this took forever. Thank you so much to all the lovely reviewers and fellow Richobels! Can we please form a posse and go kidnap Richard and Isobel from Julian Fellowes? He doesn't deserve to have them right now!_

She doesn't come to the hospital the next day. She calls to say she is feeling unwell and will not be in. Isobel is never sick. The one time she did come down with a nasty bout of bronchitis she'd insisted on coming in to work her scheduled shift and he'd had to insist, even more forcefully, that she go home to avoid endangering any of the patients.

He is so worried about her that he can barely concentrate on rounds. As soon as he's finished up and can leave the hospital he heads directly for her house, but once he gets there he realizes he has no idea what to do. It is growing dark and he can see her through the lighted window. She is sitting at her desk in the sitting room, writing feverishly. He hopes desperately that it is not a confessional note to Violet. Not wanting to interrupt, he stays only long enough to ascertain that she doesn't seem to have suffered any adverse consequences from the night before.

At home he eyes the bottle of whiskey but decides against it, mindful of the lingering dull throb in his head and a vaguely unsettled feeling in his stomach. He forces down a bowl of soup and a cup of tea instead, then decides to make an early night of it and catch up on rest. Sleep, however, refuses to oblige. He tosses and turns for what feels like hours until succumbing to a fitful slumber. Shortly after midnight he awakes with a jolt, the moon shining in through his window as though it has something important to share with him, and quite suddenly he realizes what must be done. He will tell her everything, he will tell her of all his love for her, every potentially embarrassing detail. Because it is not enough any longer, simply to be her friend. Just being nearby is not acceptable, not now that he knows what it is like to hold her close, to feel her heart beating against his chest and the silk of her hair on his cheek. He wants so much more than simply to brush by her during the workday and chat with her on occasional chance encounters; he wants to be the last person she sees at night and the first in the morning. He wants to share meals with her, sleep beside her, know the Isobel that nobody else knows, that he has had only glimpses of. If telling her destroys their friendship…he cannot bear to think about the horrible bleakness of that possibility, but he knows with a deep, unavoidable certainty that he has to take the risk. Resolved, he falls into a tranquil sleep.

He wakes the next morning with a clear head and a driving sense of purpose. When he arrives at the hospital he beckons to the first nurse he sees and asks her to send Nurse Crawley to his office. Entering said office, his eye is caught by something unusual. Lying on the polished surface of his orderly desk is a small cream-colored envelope. Picking it up, he immediately recognizes the graceful swoops and swirls of her penmanship. Heart quickening, he dons the reading glasses he's only recently begun to use. He carefully opens it and begins to read.

"_Dear Dr. Clarkson_,

_ I must once more apologize for my behavior at dinner. It was impulsive, ill-considered, and impolite and I am sincerely sorry for any discomfort I may have caused you. I cannot, however, be completely sorry that it happened because it led me to draw a rather important and rather surprising conclusion, and that conclusion is that I am in love with you. I believe I've been in love with you for quite a long while, but I didn't realize it until last night. You may be under the impression that my actions are the result of over-imbibing; however I can assure you I feel absolutely the same in the cold light of morning and with, quite honestly, a rather painful head. _

_ I am somewhat confused about your feelings on the matter, but Dr. Clarkson- Richard- if you do care for me, if you have ever cared for me, I think we ought to talk about it. I allow myself to hope that you do._

_ Yours as ever, _

_ Isobel Crawley_

He is staring at the letter in disbelief when her voice alerts him to her presence.

"You wanted to see me, Dr. Clarkson?"

She stands framed in the doorway in her navy blue dress and work apron. On her face is an expression he doesn't recall ever seeing before. Isobel Crawley, for the first time he can remember, looks uncertain.

Her eyes drop, taking in the letter in his hands, and then return to his, meeting his shocked gaze straight-on.

"Yes," he rasps. His world spins off its axis, flies apart, and rearranges itself into an alternate reality wherein Isobel Crawley stands in the door to his office, her eyes full of longing and hope and trepidation. "Come in."

She takes a few steps inside. He crosses to her, reaches past her shoulder to close the heavy oak door before pressing his lips against hers, moving close so her body is sandwiched between his frame and the door. She gasps in surprise, then relaxes into the kiss, lips meeting his fervently, silent questions and answers being exchanged. Her hands slide up his back and entwine themselves in the hair at the nape of his neck. It is minutes before either of them can form words but then, with an effort, he moves his lips from her mouth to her neck.

"I love you," he whispers into her ear. He was raised in a strict Scottish family where emotions were meant to be squelched, not expressed, has never been comfortable with sentiment of any sort, but now that he has said it he doesn't want to stop, the words an unsatisfyingly pale shadow of what he feels for her. "I love you, Isobel. I adore you. I think I've loved you since the first day I met you."

Her brown eyes are glassy with tears, but she laughs shakily, smiles up at him as she cups his cheek.

"And I love you, you dear, sweet, wonderful, ridiculous man. I only wish I'd realized it sooner. We could have had so much more time together. Well, I suppose we'll just have to make the absolute most of whatever time we do have."

He couldn't agree more and is just leaning in to kiss her again when she halts him,

"Wait!"

He stops, worried that he's done something wrong, hurt her in some way.

She grins as she gently removes the glasses from his nose.

"It's only that I've become rather fond of these. I'd hate to see them get broken."

She carefully folds them and slips them into his pocket before pulling his head down to hers, kissing him with an enthusiasm that he returns in full.

Eventually she sighs and pulls away.

"Much as I hate to leave, I really must get back before Nurse Jenkins sends out a search party. But do come by tonight, won't you? I think we have much more to -" her eyes flick down to his mouth, then back up "…discuss."

The evening can't come soon enough for him and for the first time he wishes he'd gone into a different line of work, one where he could easily take the afternoon off.

"I'll go with you. I've got to talk to Nurse Jenkins about a patient anyway."

As they leave the office and walk down the hallway, he feels her small fingers slip into his and they head toward the ward, hands entwined, oblivious to all the curious glances and suppressed giggles being directed their way.

The End


End file.
